It’s hot. It’s cooler now than it was a few hours ago, three-point-two degrees cooler, to be exact, but it still has me sweating under my jacket. I walk through the trees and drag my hands through the bushes. Birds chirp above me and the ground thuds dully beneath me. I catch a glimpse of the pink sky peeking through the leaves and the sunlight paints the trunks gold. It’s a fairyland. A fairyland I don’t deserve to be a part of.

I welcome the sudden silence. In my profession, it’s hard to catch a moment to myself. I work with people all the time, and I have to always be able to go into the office. It’s odd, because even though I am surrounded by people, I always feel alone. And even when I am ‘alone’, I am never free.

We can’t talk about our feelings at work. We can only focus on our jobs because anything else is considered ‘irrelevant’. We must focus on the mission and the mission only. We cannot be people; we are robots, machines. Useful for missions, disposable, replaceable.

To them, we are numbers on a screen. We don’t have names. I guess a name is too personal to give a weapon.

Hello, I am 602857. I am an assassin.

I’ve had many names on missions, had many personalities and backgrounds, but they weren’t mine. I don’t know what my name is.

And I don’t want to know. I don’t want to remember anything. What would happen if I remembered? I know I’ve killed. I don’t remember the kills.

If I remembered one thing, would I remember everything? Would I remember every scream, every terror-stricken face? Every beg, every cry, every lifeless body in my arms? Every drop of blood on my hands? I know I’ve killed. I don’t know the number I’ve killed.

I don’t want any distractions from my missions. No distractions.

A noise startles me. I look around, searching around for the source of the twig snapping. I know its not me- I’m careful to never make a noise no matter where I am. My hand rests on the grip of my gun; my finger waits expectantly on the trigger. My mind races as I think of possible causes for the sound. Is someone there?

Are they coming for me?

A figure dressed in black darts behind a tree. My hands pull the gun from the holster without my conscious command. It surprises me, but I’m too focused on my target- the figure- to care.

“Start shooting.” A voice commands me. My rational mind tries to reason with the voice, arguing that it would be sensible to investigate before firing.

My finger pulls the trigger.

And I’m running. I don’t when I started, and I can’t stop. I try to slow my legs to a walk, pout they protest and speed up. I try to hold on to a tree, but my arms won’t move from the gun.

I am a weapon, and I am locked on my target.

I am a weapon, and I have a target.

I am a weapon.

Weapon.

I am a weapon and nothing else.

“Think about the mission.” The voice says.

I can’t think anymore. I’m running, chasing this figure, and I will not stop until the mission is complete. I will complete my mission. The darkness is broken by the explosions from the barrel of my gun. My target is hindered by his poor eyesight, I excel without sight. I hear each of his footfalls grow louder as I speed towards him.

I fire again.

This time I hit him, in the back of the neck. Another bullet scrapes the side of his throat.

“His cry is familiar.” A small voice in my mind tries to tell me. It is irrelevant. No, it’s not. The cry is not familiar. The cry of this target is not familiar. It’s not.

The wind blows through the branches, making them scream. Rain splatters from the crying clouds My feet squelch in the mud as I walk towards the body. My mind tries to tell me that there is too much mud for this amount of rain, but I don’t listen.

I reach out to pick up the body, but I freeze when I see his face. Isn’t that-

“You do not know him.” The voice commands. Yes, that is right.